


Decoration Day

by withmyradio



Category: Avengers (2012), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Memorial Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withmyradio/pseuds/withmyradio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He imagines everything that has ever happened is always happening and the only trick is to figure out how to turn the page, remaining *where* he is and changing the *when*. He imagines it’s possible. He wishes. And he wishes more than ever today, standing on Bedford Avenue, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the parade</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decoration Day

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd, all errors are always my own.

Steve is not a genius. Unlike his old friend Howard Stark, or Howard’s son Tony, he knows nothing about physics or quantum mechanics or string theory, whatever that is. He really has no right to any notions about time and space… But he has some anyway. He imagines all of history, every year, month, week on down to the smallest millisecond, as pages in his sketchbook, each moment stacked on top of the one previous. He imagines everything that has ever happened is always happening and the only trick is to figure out how to turn the page, remaining _where_ he is and changing the _when_. He imagines it’s possible. He wishes. And he wishes more than ever today, standing on Bedford Avenue, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the parade.

He’s not seeing it, not the way it is, because he can’t help but see it the way it was. He stands next to himself at every age, always the same spot on Bedford Ave., always with his hands in his pockets. Age four, his mother’s fingers stroking his hair, saluting the uniformed young men who pass by in honor of the father he never met. Age 12, shifting uneasily in place, averting his gaze from the disabled veterans with their missing limbs and horrific burns. Age 20, unflinchingly meeting the eyes in each disfigured face, awed by their sacrifice, honored by their gift, longing for a chance to give of himself the way they had.

_Age 26, lost and alone and impossibly alive, staring as old soldiers who are his contemporaries shuffle past and leave him behind._

“Penny for your thoughts, soldier,” a soft voice brings him back to the present (which still feels like the future). It belongs to a young woman who wouldn’t be out of place in any of his remembrances. With her glossy dark hair waving to her shoulders, her porcelain face defined by large blue eyes and full blood-red lips, she could be a USO girl, a WAC, even a pinup considering the curves he’s aware of but resolutely ignoring. She could be Peggy, except she isn’t; no one is, not anymore, not since he fell and froze and the world spun on without him.

“Can’t promise you any value for your money, ma’am,” Steve responds, shrugging awkwardly. “How did you guess?”

“Guess what?”

“You called me ‘soldier’.” He’d considered getting his hands on a current uniform but dismissed the idea. It would have felt wrong, the way he feels wrong. Out of place.

She laughs and smiles up at him, and he can’t help but be charmed by the little gap between her white teeth. “Please,” she scoffs. “I made you from a mile away; you can’t hide that posture.”

He finds himself smiling in return. The expression feels strange on his face, his lips unused to curving up like this anymore, and he wonders if she can tell how uneasily he wears the expression. “Fair enough. The colonel was always pretty insistent on us standing up straight; doubt I’ll ever shake it.”

“There are worse habits to have,” she says, fumbling with the messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She searches for a moment before brandishing something triumphantly. “Here, have a poppy.”

He takes it from her, looks at it in surprise. It’s not a real poppy, but one made of wire and tissue paper, familiar from his (so distant) past. His smile widens and settles naturally, feels less desperate. “My mother used to make these! I used to help.”

_Age seven, fingers clumsily twisting green thread around wire stems, tangling it beyond redemption as his mother’s friends wave small flags and she tells him his flowers are beautiful._

“Cool, was she American Legion Auxiliary too?” the woman asks.

“Yes ma’am. My dad was in the Army, the 107th. She was really active with them after he died.”

“That sucks,” she says, and he’s been in this strange shiny world long enough to know that this is an expression of sympathy due to his father's death. "I'm really sorry." The tone of her voice is sincere, and there is no pity in her gaze, which he appreciates.

“Thanks,” he answers, and hopes she can see her own sincerity reflected back at her. He hopes she _can’t_ see the admiration he fears must be in his eyes, or the nervousness he feels. He’s never been good at talking to women, beautiful women especially, and his elevated heart rate and sweaty palms remind him she certainly is that. “Uh, what about yourself? You, uh… You have a family member in the service?”

She grins. “Let’s just say my father never answered to ‘dad’… If we wanted his attention, we had to call for the captain.”

Steve barks out a laugh, because it’s really just too perfect. “What branch?”

“Air Force,” she says, and it’s funny because the Air Force is actually younger than he is, didn’t even exist until years after he’d hit the ice. It’s so strange, knowing that an entire military branch with its own codes, procedures and traditions sprang up while he slept. “Wait, what branch are you?”

“Army,” he admits, attempting a charming smile.

“The captain would _not_ approve,” she tells him, and he laughs again.

“Well, I won’t say anything if you won’t. Is he retired now?”

“Yep. They’re all back in Colorado, so I missed out on our usual festivities, but it didn’t feel right not making poppies for Memorial Day.”

There’s a long pause, and he realizes it’s his turn to speak. He’s sure there are many comments he could make, ways he could keep this conversation going. Bucky, he thinks wistfully, would know all of them, know the right questions to ask. But he isn’t Bucky, more’s the pity, and he’s nervous and can’t think of anything better than: “It used to be called Decoration Day.”

“Really?” He thinks it’s a pretty pathetic conversational gambit, but she seems genuinely interested in the topic.

Nodding with perhaps more enthusiasm than the subject really warrants, he stumbles through an explanation. “Yes. People used to, um… You know, go out to the cemetery and decorate soldiers’ graves. Flowers, wreaths, flags. That kind of thing.”

“Oh, I like that,” the woman says. “It sounds so personal, like really spending time with your loved one. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” he tells her, swallowing against the emotion welling in his throat. “It, uh… You know, it feels that way, too, or used to. My mom and I used to bring a picnic and sit on my dad’s grave.” He’s almost surprised as he tells her this; he hasn’t thought about it in years, maybe since his mother’s death.

“That’s really sweet. Or creepy? No, mostly sweet,” she decides. “So people still do it then?”

Steve doesn’t know; somehow, he thinks this futuristic era might be too fast for something like that. Nothing takes any time at all anymore, and everyone seems unwilling to spend their precious minutes on anything, even the things that are worth the investment.

He doesn’t say that because he can’t. Instead he shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe people don’t have time for it anymore, but it’s an old tradition. Those are hard to shake.”

She nods, her hair falling forward like a Veronica Lake peek-a-boo do until she tosses her head and shakes it back. There’s the faint scent of something sweet and warm. Her shampoo, probably, or maybe just her.

“This is an old tradition, this Brooklyn parade,” she tells him, gesturing to the parade, which he has been ignoring shamefully. “It’s the longest running Memorial Day parade in the country.”

There’s a pang in his chest that he can’t quite identify. It’s not sadness, not really, though it’s wrapped up with that. Maybe one part sadness, two parts nostalgia and two parts gratitude at the thought that there’s something left that existed long before his birth and rebirth and freeze and thaw, something he remembers, something to provide a thin thread of continuity. Like the thread of the flower she made and gave to him.

“I know,” he whispers. _He stands next to himself at every age, and next to thousands of others both before and after his time. Each moment stacked on top of the one previous._

“Well,” she begins after a moment, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as though preparing to bolt, “I’d better get back to headquarters… You got my last poppy.”

This pang is much easier to identify: disappointment, pure disappointment. He wants to reach out for her, place his hand on her shoulder just firmly enough to keep her close. He wants to feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her blouse. He can’t, of course, can only do his best to hide his thoughts and smile. “I’m honored. I’ll take good care of it.”

“Good. It deserves a good home.” She hesitates. “Thank you. For your service. And your conversation, I mean… I’m really going to impress the old Auxiliary ladies with the whole Decoration Day thing.”

He likes the way she rambles a little, the way she stays as though she’s waiting for him. “Always happy to be of use, ma’am.”

“It’s Darcy, actually,” she offers, still lingering.

“Darcy. I’m Steve.”

She reaches out and he takes her slender pale hand in his much larger grasp. “Steve.”

He likes the way she says his name, because like him it’s nothing special but she says it as though it is.

“There’s a… A luncheon, I guess,” she begins hurriedly. “You know, barbeque, a few speeches. Technically you have to be a member to attend but… I could use some help. Making more poppies. If you don’t mind working for your food.”

He likes the way she exists, he thinks, just likes _her_ , because she’s sweet and charming and the fact that she’s blushing a little doesn’t hurt. He’s blushing a little himself.

“I don’t mind.”

Her smile is both relieved and pleased. “Cool.”

She tugs on his hand, pulling him in her wake, and as much as he knows she’s simply leading him to headquarters, he likes the way she doesn’t let go.

_Age 27, smiling and laughing with a beautiful dark-haired girl, matching paper poppies pinned to their shirts, staring as old soldiers who are his contemporaries shuffle past. Content to be left behind._

**Author's Note:**

> \- The Brooklyn Memorial Day Parade actually is the oldest in the country, with yesterday being the 147th one. However, the route was changed 19 years ago, which I've decided to ignore.
> 
> \- The American Legion Auxiliary, founded in 1919, is the largest patriotic organization in the world. It's dedicated to serving veterans and made up of family members of people in all branches of the military. Their little paper poppies are awesome.
> 
> \- The 107th Army Infantry Regiment was formed in 1917 and disestablished in 1993, so Steve isn't giving anything away by saying his dad was in it.
> 
> Happy Memorial Day!
> 
> P.S. I swear I'm working on All-American Kiss but every sentence is a struggle. Hopefully this will help everything flow more easily.


End file.
